


Don't Need Another Perfect Lie

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Hospitalization, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Therapy, but he's making an effort, but still angst, mycroft is not good with feelings, past abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9835067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Mycroft finally opens up to his therapist.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Secrets by OneRepublic.  
> Just letting you know, the flashbacks aren't actually happening in Mycroft's mind or anything. I just like flashbacks and they provide some context. Also, let me know if you think I should be tagging anything else or upping the rating.  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

Mycroft drummed his fingers lightly against his elbow. The clock on the wall was ticking at a thunderous volume. He was acutely aware of every part of his body; his arms crossed resolutely against his chest, one leg folded tightly over the other in an attempt to keep from bouncing it, even the little wisp of hair at the base of his skull that was tickling his neck unpleasantly. He stared defiantly across the room, lips tightly pursed. He had never lost a staring match before, not against hardened criminals, assassins, politicians, or even his little brother. He was not about to start losing now.

“These sessions would be a lot more useful to you if you spoke to me,” Dr. “call me Percy” Trevelyan said mildly. She didn’t so much as glance at the clock when she said, “You still have a good forty minutes left.”

“What, exactly, do you want me to say?” Mycroft challenged.

Dr. Trevelyan appeared completely unaffected. “This is your fourth session with me, Mycroft, and in that time you’ve spent a total of twenty minutes speaking, including introductions the first week. Why are you still coming if you don’t intend to speak to me?”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint Gregory,” Mycroft said casually. “Getting me to come to these meetings was so important to him.”

“Gregory,” Dr. Trevelyan mused. She consulted her notes, “You mean Greg Lestrade. He came here with you on your first visit?”

_If it hadn’t been for Gregory’s hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, he was sure he would have bolted. That, and Anthea was blocking his path to the door. She appeared fixated on her phone, but Mycroft suspected that if he so much as took a step in her direction his P.A. would be there to push him back into the waiting room._

_“It’s a bit…public,” Mycroft said in distaste, glancing around at the cheap sofa and the basket of coloring books._

___“Anthea did all the background checks,” Gregory reassured him. “Dr. Trevelyan is very discreet. You can trust her.”_

___The woman in question chose that moment to make her appearance. She was fairly tall but wore heels anyway. Her sleek black pencil skirt and matching blouse were a sign of being all business, maybe too “all business” judging from the sheer number of cats she owned, given the amount of fur plastered around her ankles._

___Gregory nudged him gently and whispered, “I can hear your brain whirring. Stop deducing her.” Mycroft frowned at his boyfriend but forced himself to cut off the train of thought._

___“Right,” she said, “which one of you is Mycroft Holmes?”_

___When Mycroft didn’t answer right away, Gregory responded, “He is. I’m Greg, Greg Lestrade. Mycroft’s just a bit shy about seeing a therapist, so I’m here for moral support.”_

___Mycroft chanced a glance towards the door, but Anthea caught him looking and gave the tiniest shake of her head. Damn. He sighed, “Go home, Gregory. Anthea will drop me off when I’m done.”_

___“Alright,” Gregory agreed easily. He kissed Mycroft’s cheek, and then said to Anthea, “Make sure he doesn’t bolt, yeah?”_

___“Of course,” she replied._

___When Gregory disappeared out the door, Mycroft turned back to Dr. Trevelyan, who was waiting patiently. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered._

___She smiled, “Right this way.”_

__“Yes, Gregory accompanied me. It was his idea for me to see a therapist in the first place.”

“And he’s your boyfriend?” Dr. Trevelyan asked.

“That is correct.”

If the therapist was bothered by his clipped tone, she didn’t let on. Instead she asked, “How long, exactly, have you two been seeing each other?”

Mycroft took a moment, debating whether or not to answer her, before he said, “We’ve been together just over a month now.”

“How did you meet?”

“Oh, he arrested my brother,” Mycroft said with feigned casualness, just to see her reaction. There was a raised eyebrow, but nothing more. He continued, “It was just over ten years ago, actually. Gregory was quite adamant about helping Sherlock get back on his feet, and we’ve been…friends, of a sort, ever since.”

_As a general rule, Mycroft didn’t kidnap just anyone. Although kidnapping was a bit of a harsh term; he was simply redirecting people into his path in order to ascertain information. And this location, although a bit dramatic, was one of his favorites. There was nothing like a large, spooky warehouse and a strange man in a tailored suit to frighten the pants off of someone._

___“Just who the hell do you think you are?” The man bridging the gap between the door and Mycroft looked anything but frightened. His strides were long and confident, if a bit angry, and he held himself with a posture that was upright, but not rigid. The premature salt and pepper hair should have made him look much older than he was, but he had a young face which, at that moment, happened to be contorted in irritation. He stopped several feet away from Mycroft, completely ignoring the chair the government official had thoughtfully provided for his guest._

___Mycroft was a bit surprised by the reaction, but he was confident that none of it showed through his carefully constructed mask of indifference. “It has come to my attention that you have recently made a new acquaintance, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” Dropping a full name and title usually did the trick, if location did not._

___The D.I. leaned back on his heels, surprise evident in his expression, before the anger returned, and he snapped, “Who the hell are you and how the hell do you know my name?”_

___“Oh, you’ve got a bit of a mouth on you, haven’t you?” Mycroft grinned, as if amused, but internally he was frowning. This had not been how he planned the situation to play out. It was time to rethink strategy. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, Detective Inspector. If I’m not much mistaken, you met my brother earlier today.”_

___There was surprise again, but this time it was followed by a laugh. “I should have guessed,” Lestrade shook his head. “Sherlock warned me to look out for black cars. Said ‘Big Brother’ was watching. I just assumed he was delusional from the drugs, but he was talking about you, wasn’t he?”_

___“Indeed,” Mycroft inclined his head. “I wish to assess your intentions towards my brother.” Complete honesty was something he’d never tried before, but based on Gregory Lestrade’s file, he suspected he would get a lot farther with the truth than a series of lies by omission. The man had a great deal of integrity. It was a shame his wife was cheating on him._

___“My intentions?” Lestrade asked._

___“He stole one of your files during his arrest, did he not?” Mycroft asked. “The sauna case, if I’m not much mistaken.”_

___“Hang on,” Lestrade said. “How do you know about that?”_

___Mycroft didn’t answer that question. Instead, he responded with, “He solved it, didn’t he? Something to do with dry ice and a towel boy. He’s very clever, even when he’s high.”_

___“So you’re saying he actually solved it,” Lestrade said in amazement. “It wasn’t just some fluke or crazy fantasy? He actually solved it?”_

___“You tell me,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Did you get a confession from the towel boy?”_

___“Yeah, we did.”_

___“Then I think that answers your question quite well. So I will ask again, Detective Inspector. What are your intentions towards my brother? You’ve seen what he can do. A tool like that would be wasted just lying around rotting, don’t you think?”_

___“Lemme get this straight,” Lestrade said, “You want me to, what, let a civilian look at police cases?”_

___“Sherlock is no ordinary civilian,” Mycroft assured him. “Think about how much good you could do with his help. You are a good, honest man, and you know that, occasionally, you have to bend the rules a bit to get things done.”_

___“I’m not going to work with a junkie.”_

___“Nor would I expect you to,” Mycroft returned easily. He leaned against his umbrella, relaxing his posture to appear more sympathetic. Lestrade seemed to respond well to humanizing cues. “In fact, Sherlock working with you would be conditional on his remaining clean. He does love a good challenge, so if you make him that offer, I guarantee you he won’t refuse.”_

___Lestrade deliberated for another moment, but Mycroft could see that he’d already won. It was clear from his wife and his track record in the department that Lestrade wouldn’t turn away someone in need of help. Quite the opposite; the man seemed to love helping others. It would be a bit sickening if it wasn’t a refreshing change from the self-serving bureaucrats Mycroft dealt with day in and day out. Finally, Lestrade said, “Fine. I’ll offer to let him help on_ some _cases, but only if he gets clean and stays that way.”_

___“I’m glad we have an understanding-”_

___“On one condition.”_

___Mycroft frowned, mask slipping. He righted it quickly and raised an eyebrow, “Oh?”_

___“No more kidnapping me,” Lestrade insisted. “If you want to see me, keep tabs on your brother, whatever, you don’t send a creepy black car to take me to some warehouse in the middle of nowhere. You send me a text or call me like a normal person, we meet up in some café or restaurant, and we have a chat. Deal?”_

___It was almost comical, and Mycroft suppressed the urge to laugh. A lowly police officer believed he could call the shots with the man who controlled the British government and half a dozen other organizations besides? His command of the situation was actually rather attractive, but Mycroft banished that thought the moment it crossed his mind. “Fine,” he agreed._

___Lestrade held out his hand, and Mycroft took it, shaking firmly and ignoring the zing of electricity it shot down his arm._ Married _, he scolded himself,_ and even if he wasn’t, you’re beyond such childish nonsense _. “I believe you know the way out,” Mycroft dismissed him._

___Lestrade shook his head, “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes?”_

___“Oh yes,” Mycroft agreed with a shark-like grin. “I’ll be very bad for your smoking habit, I’m sure.”_

___Already halfway to the door, Lestrade turned back and called, “I don’t smoke. I quit.”_

___“Keep telling yourself that, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft inclined his head._

___The door banged shut behind him, and Mycroft loosened his grip on the umbrella. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been clutching it. The policeman really was very attractive, and the fact that he hadn’t been the slightest bit intimidated by Mycroft was the sign of a rare and truly special individual. Yes, Gregory Lestrade was going to have a very good place in Sherlock’s life. If only Mycroft could get over this ridiculous…crush…then everything would be fine._

__“So you met through your brother, then?”

“In a way, yes,” Mycroft confirmed. After a beat, he admitted, “Sherlock did play a part in getting us together as well. He seemed to be aware our attraction was mutual before either Gregory or myself discovered it.”

“And does your brother often meddle in your life?” Dr. Trevelyan asked.

Mycroft laughed, “You’re clearly fishing now.”

“I’m a therapist. It’s what I do.”

“Alright,” Mycroft said. “No. Sherlock rarely takes an interest in my affairs. He’s much more absorbed in his own life. Between the two of us, I am far more involved in his life than he is in mine.”

She consulted her notes again, “Last week you also said that Sherlock tends to keep friends who disapprove of you. How does that make you feel?”

Mycroft straightened, “I have absolutely no opinion on the sort of company my brother keeps.”

“Do these lies work on everyone, or are they just for my benefit?” Dr. Trevelyan surveyed him over the top of her glasses, and Mycroft’s insides twisted unpleasantly.

_“Don’t,” Sherlock said abruptly._

___Mycroft frowned at him, “I wasn’t going to-”_

___Sherlock leapt out of his chair, pacing back and forth across the living room of 221B Baker Street. As he did, he said, “You were going to suggest stopping by at Christmas. Don’t bother, all my friends abhor you.”_

___“Friends?” Mycroft allowed the word to bite, trying to hide his hurt at the statement. “I wasn’t aware that you had any of those.”_

___“Don’t play coy, Mycroft, it doesn’t become you. You know perfectly well that I have a small selection of people who actually like me, which is more than you can say.”_

___Mycroft shifted in John’s chair, running his finger down the armrest. “The good doctor does seem rather fond of you,” he allowed grudgingly._

___“Well, John is an excellent judge of character,” Sherlock said. He stopped his pacing, distracted by something on his desk. A case then, he was letting it run in the background of his mind while they spoke. Mycroft debated glancing at it before he left, if only to spite Sherlock when he solved it with just a look. His brother continued, “After all, he loathes you almost as much as I do, and he doesn’t approve of your need to control my every move.”_

___“I don’t…” Mycroft sighed. “I don’t control you, Sherlock. I simply like to keep an eye on you. We both know you can get up to all sorts of trouble when left to your own devices.”_

___Sherlock went on, ignoring Mycroft, “and Mrs. Hudson definitely hates you. You must have noticed how cold she is whenever she speaks to you, even an idiot could pick that up. And I’m fairly certain she spits in your tea when she gives it to you.”_

___“You say that like it’s a regular occurrence. She made me tea once. Every other time she prefers to ignore my existence.”_

___“And Molly, well-”_

___“Molly’s never met me.”_

___“Yes she has.” Sherlock smirked._

___Mycroft frowned, casting about in his memory, until he landed on the incident Sherlock was referencing. “For god’s sake,” he said, exasperated, “it was a_ phone call _. That hardly qualifies as me meeting her.”_

___“She said you sounded like a right prick,” Sherlock’s voice bordered on gleeful. “Those were her exact words. She also indicated that your voice gave her a distinctly uncomfortable feeling, like a spider crawling down her spine, although that was slightly more subtext.”_

___Mycroft sighed again, lacing his fingers together and leaning back in the chair. Sherlock was on a roll, and interrupting him before he was done would just prolong the conversation and Mycroft’s anguish. It was winding down now anyway, as Sherlock came to the end of his very short list of friends._

___“Lestrade, naturally, tolerates you out of sheer necessity, but he thinks that you consider him your personal lapdog, whose only purpose is to come when you call and fetch him sticks. Considering that his marriage is currently falling apart, I think it would be a bit much for him to have to deal with both that and you over the holidays.” Sherlock’s smirk grew, “It’s such a shame, isn’t it?”_

___Mycroft closed his eyes, ignoring the twinge in his chest that accompanied the mention of the detective inspector. He steeled himself, and gave in to the goading, “What is?”_

___“Oh, nothing,” Sherlock bounced on his heels, hands clasped behind his back in a gesture that Mycroft had seen him do since childhood. “Just the fact that, despite how unsociable I am, I have people around for Christmas, people who like me, and you have no one.”_

___Mycroft stood up, “I think you’ve made your point, brother dear. I’ll see myself out.”_

___“Have a piece of cake, on me,” Sherlock taunted._

___Mycroft forced himself to make it halfway down the stairs, out of Sherlock’s line of sight, before he allowed his shoulders to tense. The nonsense with the Woman and her photographs had been very taxing as of late, and he was currently making it by on a diet that consisted almost entirely of tea and cigarettes. Probably time for a slight caloric increase, then. It wouldn’t do to be hospitalized in the middle of such important business. Who had time for friends and the holidays when there was work to be done?_

__“It...bothers me a bit,” Mycroft eventually admitted. “I know I do not have friends. For a long while I believed myself incapable. But now…”

“Now you find yourself wanting what your brother has,” Dr. Trevelyan offered.

Mycroft pursed his lips and murmured, “I do believe so, yes.”

“In these sessions, you tend to dance around the subject of your family,” she said. “Every time I bring them up, you either shift the topic or close off entirely. Why is that?”

“My family is a...sensitive subject.”

“I’ve noticed. But why?”

Dr. Trevelyan allowed Mycroft the long minute he needed to find the correct words. Finally, he said, “I’ve spent most of my life taking care of my family, dealing with all the unpleasant things on my own to spare them any pain. However, they don’t appreciate what I do for them and I suppose that...upsets me more than I would like.”

 _“Why are you telling_ me _about this?” Mycroft looked up at his uncle with uncertain eyes. He was hardly more than twelve years old, but his uncle had entrusted him with something that felt well beyond his power to control._

___Uncle Rudy clapped a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, “I’m not always going to be around, Mikey. You’re a smart kid, and you’re going places in life. Sherlock doesn’t remember Eurus at all, and it’s much kinder to your parents to think that she’s dead after all the heartache she’s caused them. But you’re sharp. You’ll keep an eye on her, keep everyone safe.”_

___“What if I can’t?”_

___“You can.”_

__“When you say that they don’t appreciate you, what do you mean?” Dr. Trevelyan asked.

“They have a tendency to criticize my decisions without putting any thought into why I made them.”

 _Mummy stalked past Mycroft, who was holding his office door open for her. Without turning around, she snapped, “Until you feel like letting us see our daughter, which is our_ right _as parents, I suggest you repress the urge to contact us. It won’t be very difficult, I imagine. After all, you did it for years when you were at university, and it’s not like you need us to make any decisions regarding her anyway.”_

___Mycroft studied his feet, but he looked up when he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. Neither said anything, although it looked like the elder Holmes wanted to, but then he let go and followed Mummy down the corridor. The look in his eyes, a little bit pitying, a little bit disappointed, danced behind Mycroft’s eyelids long after he disappeared around the corner._

___Mycroft let the door swing closed and collapsed into his chair. “Well?” he said, his voice sounding as exhausted as he felt. “Care to add anything, Sherlock? Maybe a biting comment about being the smart one after all? Or perhaps you’d rather make a diet joke, you do love those.”_

___Sherlock was still in the back of the room, tucked away and silent as he had been for most of the meeting. He didn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes when he murmured, almost too softly to hear, “She may have a point, Mycroft. At some point, they did deserve to know.” He pushed off from the wall and swung the door open, before pausing. “Give my best to Greg, will you?”_

___Mycroft didn’t answer, but the moment the door closed behind his brother, he reached into the desk drawer for a cigarette. He fumbled with the packaging for a moment before he threw it down in disgust. On the desk, his phone chimed quietly._

___Everything alright? How did it go? – GL_

___Mycroft sighed, allowing himself a soft smile before replying._

___Better now I’ve heard from you. Please call. – MH_

___Seconds later, the phone rang, and Mycroft answered. “Gregory.”_

___“I know you prefer to talk, but I figured I’d text, just in case you were still talking to them.”_

___“Very thoughtful of you,” Mycroft smiled affectionately, glad no one was around to see his weakness. “We’ve just finished up. It wasn’t…a very good meeting.”_

__Dr. Trevelyan looked thoughtful. “Have you tried explaining your thought process to them?”

“No,” Mycroft responded. “Mummy is a bit stubborn about her opinions. Once she makes them, she sticks to them like glue. It’s something Sherlock inherited from her.”

“Not just Sherlock.”

“I’m more flexible than my brother in my opinions. I’m stubborn in other ways.”

“I’m seeing that, yeah,” Dr. Trevelyan smiled. It took Mycroft a moment to realize she was letting slip her satisfaction at getting him to enter a dialogue with her. He debated going back to the stony silence, but then he thought of Gregory, of how important these meetings were to him and how much he wanted Mycroft to get better. Well then. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old expression went.

“My sister is…extremely mentally ill,” he explained, trying to figure out the best abridged version of the truth. “As a child, she murdered Sherlock’s best friend, and she attempted to burn my family alive by setting fire to the house. She was hospitalized, but it did not help, and eventually I told my parents she had died when, in reality, I moved her, with the help of my uncle, to a more secure location that could better care for her. Recently, through an unfortunate series of events that I suspect you will want to discuss more fully at a later date, my parents discovered that she was in fact alive, and now they do not want to speak to me unless I let them see her, which I currently cannot do, for their own safety.” He paused, and then forced the rest out in a rush, “Oh, and while I’m at it, I suppose I should mention that I suffer from an eating disorder that dates back to an abusive relationship I was in at university, both of which make me uneasy in my current relationship and unable to approach the thought of physical relations with my partner. I have frequent nightmares, which are incredibly violent and bring back memories of various traumas I’ve endured, mostly at the hands of my sister, although occasionally from my brother or the aforementioned abusive boyfriend. I suffer from anxiety, possibly PTSD, although I’m less confident on the exact diagnosis, and this makes both my work and personal life difficult for me to manage.” He waited a beat, and then allowed himself a smirk, “And I’m deathly afraid of clowns. Where would you care to start?”

Dr. Trevelyan looked stunned, either from the abrupt slew of information Mycroft had provided after so much silence or because of the content of that information, although Mycroft couldn’t tell which. He leaned back, still smirking, as it was his turn to give her a moment to process.

After a moment, she asked carefully, “Who else have you told about these things?”

“Gregory knows a good deal of it, although I’ve glossed over some of the details and I’m not sure if he is aware of the extent to which I’m affected.” Mycroft uncrossed his arms and legs, loosening them up, and resettled in a more comfortable position.

“I take it you haven’t mentioned this to your family.”

“God no,” Mycroft scoffed. “Why on earth would I want to tell them?”

“I know it can be difficult to tell loved ones when you’re going through something,” Dr. Trevelyan hedged, “but in the long run, it can be a great relief.”

“I don’t want them to pity me.”

She raised her eyebrows, “And is this something you worry about a lot, being pitied?”

“Pity is a response to weakness.” Mycroft looked away, nervously drumming his fingertips again. It was all well and good to goad his therapist a bit, but approaching the actual topics of concern was something he wasn’t fully prepared to dive into. He chastised himself for allowing his emotional reaction to overwrite his logic.

“And you don’t want to be seen as weak?” Dr. Trevelyan asked.

“Why would anyone want to be seen as weak?” Mycroft responded. He was resolutely not looking at her now, and despite his best efforts, the drumming got a bit worse.

_Mycroft struggled to open his eyes. His eyelids felt extraordinarily heavy, and it took a good minute of effort to slowly blink them open. At the edge of his vision, David’s face swam into view. He was grinning, “There you are, My. I was starting to wonder if you’d up and left on me.”_

_“Where am I?” It was a stupid question. The moment he asked it, his brain finally kicked in to provide him with the answer. The uncomfortably open hospital gown, the IV hooked up to his arm, even the clinical, sterile smell all pointed the same way. He was in hospital. Again._

_“You gave me a fright,” David said. He clasped Mycroft's hand between both of his. The tenderness of the gesture was marred somewhat as his tone darkened, “I thought you had this under control.”_

_“I do!” Mycroft protested, but his voice was still too soft. Everything ached, and he desperately wished he had the strength to move._

_David's grip on him tightened. “Then why am I being dragged to the hospital again, My?” he demanded. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Without waiting for an answer, he plowed on, “You’re weak, that's what it is. You can't even handle a little diet without passing out. Three times, My! God, it's pathetic.”_

_Mycroft felt like crying. He'd let David down again. There had been a few other times that he'd fainted, but it was never in public, never where anyone could see. But this time...the ache in his chest wasn't just from the collapse. He wasn't good enough._

_He wasn't aware of the tear slipping down his cheek until David brushed it away. He was still holding Mycroft's hand, but his grip was softer, and he'd released one of his hands to cradle Mycroft's face. “Don't cry, baby,” he cooed. “I'm sorry. I was just so worried about you. You're not strong enough, My. You need support. But it's okay. I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you.”_

“There's nothing wrong with being weak on occasion. You’re only human, Mycroft.”

He laughed, “That's what Gregory tells me.”

“Your boyfriend is a smart man.”

Mycroft nodded in agreement. Gregory was everything David hadn't been, and so much more. Opening up to his family felt impossible, what with the Holmes attitude towards weakness, but Gregory had seen him at his weakest moments and, unlike David, he didn't belittle Mycroft for them. He understood. His support wasn't the false help David had offered. It was genuine concern. “I don’t deserve him,” Mycroft mumbled, almost to himself.

“Why don’t you deserve him?”

“Because…” Mycroft searched his brain for the words. There were so many, but none truly captured the essence of how perfect Gregory was and how deeply flawed Mycroft was. “Because Gregory needs someone in his life who can give him everything. He is the best man I know, and he deserves someone who won’t keep secrets, who doesn’t struggle to express emotion, and who can provide him with all parts of a relationship, including the physical. I cannot do that for him.”

Dr. Trevelyan considered him for a moment, and then said, “Firstly, the fact that you opened up to him and no one else shows that you do care for him greatly, and as these are sensitive topics, I imagine it has forced you to display a wide range of emotions for him. Secondly, there are relationships that function perfectly well without sex. If that’s a concern of yours, we can talk about it, but lack of physicality does not inherently make or break a relationship. And thirdly, while I admit I have limited exposure to you as a couple, what I have seen is quite clear to me. Greg loves you. And maybe you think you don’t deserve him, but that doesn’t seem to matter to him.”

“Someday he’ll realize I’m not worth it,” Mycroft whispered. He wondered if this was how corpses felt on Molly Hooper’s table in the mortuary; spread open, with all their innards on display for anyone to see. Then he scolded himself for being childish. The dead did not feel. But then again, many people thought that of him.

“I can’t promise you anything,” Dr. Trevelyan said. “I’m a therapist, not a fortune-teller. But what I can say is that if you really love him, and you’re willing to put in the work, I think your relationship will be just fine.” She glanced at the clock, seeming surprised, “Sorry. It looks like our hour is up already.” She stood, and Mycroft stood with her. “I’ll see you next week,” she said. “I’d suggest picking something you’d like to focus on. It looks like there’s quite a list to choose from.”

Mycroft smiled at the light attempt at humor. He inclined his head, “Until next week, doctor.”

She waved to him as he strolled out of her office. Anthea was in the waiting room, lounging on the sofa and typing something on her phone, but she looked up when he came out. “Home, sir?” she asked. He simply nodded.

Gregory was already there when he got in. He was in the kitchen making dinner, Mycroft’s sound system turned up loudly enough for him to hear it, humming and dancing loosely to some of the swing music from Mycroft’s collection. Swing was the miniscule area where Mycroft and Gregory’s music taste overlapped, as Gregory called Mycroft’s classical preferences “pretentious” and Mycroft insisted Gregory’s classic rock was mostly “noisy trash.” They had had a playful argument that ended with the agreement that, with few exceptions, swing music was the only thing that could be played when they were both home.

Mycroft had to smile at the domestic scene, and his smile only broadened when Gregory caught sight of him and grinned. “Hello, darling,” he greeted his boyfriend. Mycroft didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of calling Gregory that.

Gregory reached out and pulled him in by the end of his tie. He dragged him into a soft kiss, and then murmured, “Hello yourself, love. How was therapy?”

It took all of Mycroft’s considerable willpower to ignore the way his body lit up at such close proximity. His heart rate had doubled, his breathing was a bit shallower than normal, and Mycroft had no doubt that if there was a mirror around, he’d be able to see his dilated pupils. As it was, Gregory never failed to make his brain go a bit fuzzy at this distance. He swallowed hard. “Therapy was fine. I’d even say it was…enlightening,” he admitted.

“I’m glad,” Gregory gave him that easygoing smile, the one that spread from one corner of his mouth to the other, and Mycroft melted a bit inside. He gestured toward the stove, “I’m just about done here. You up for dinner tonight?”

An hour earlier, Mycroft might have said no. But after talking with Dr. Trevelyan, after processing what the sessions meant, his stomach had settled considerably, and while the voice in the back of his mind was hissing in anger, it was mostly quiet now. “I think I can manage it,” Mycroft said, and was rewarded with another beaming smile.

“Great,” Gregory said. “Why don’t you get the plates out, and then we can eat, and you can tell me about therapy. You know, if you want. Or, if you don’t, you can tell me the censored version of your day at work.”

_“I never want you to feel like I’m prying,” Gregory said. When Mycroft turned to look at him, his boyfriend’s face was deadly serious. “I mean it. I know there’s things you can’t tell me, and I’m…well, I’m not entirely okay with it, but I understand.”_

_Gregory had one arm around Mycroft’s shoulder, and they were pressed together on the sofa in his screening room. The position made avoiding his gaze very easy, but it was also a little more intimate than Mycroft had been prepared for. He didn’t mind it, quite the contrary in fact, but he hadn’t expected to warm up to any physical contact, including cuddling, quite so quickly. The fact that David kept Mycroft at arm’s length, when he wasn’t using touches to lightly guide Mycroft’s actions or when they weren’t having sex, was probably an enormous help in that department._

_Mycroft contemplated Gregory’s words. They’d had so many different conversations about so many different things in the past few days, all having to do with their relationship and how it would work, but boundary setting was still new for him. David hadn’t allowed for boundaries, so Gregory giving him choices and allowing him to say no to things was a bit difficult to wrap his head around. Finally, he answered, “I will never be upset at you for asking me a question. However, I can’t always guarantee that the question in and of itself won’t upset me, and I won’t always be able to provide an answer.”_

_“I can work with that,” Gregory said. Mycroft wasn’t looking at him, so he didn’t have a clue what Gregory’s expression looked like, but the soft kiss pressed to his temple told Mycroft everything he needed to know. It wasn’t going to be easy for him, dating Gregory, but after wanting him for so long there was no way that Mycroft was letting him go. At least, not until Gregory didn’t want him anymore. Mycroft loved him far too much to keep him there if Gregory really wanted to leave._

_Love. The thought struck him abruptly, and it terrified him. It wasn’t a crush or an infatuation anymore. What he felt for the older man was more than the tentative friendship they had developed over the years, more than the quiet pleasure Mycroft got just from being in his presence. It was love. Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, loved Gregory Lestrade. Maybe, someday soon, he’d even be able to tell him that._

“Oh, my day was incredibly boring.” Mycroft reached around Gregory to get plates out of the cabinet. “I wouldn’t want you to suffer through me talking about my meeting with the Prime Minister. It was dull enough in person.”

“Dull can be nice,” Gregory pointed out. As he worked, taking the plates from Mycroft to serve dinner, he groaned, “Your brother is driving me up the wall. I thought domesticity was supposed to calm him down.”

“You know John. He encourages most of Sherlock’s behavior, so I wouldn’t hold out hope. It’s only a matter of time before that daughter of theirs is being ferried around to crime scenes and learning the parts of the body from corpses.”

Gregory winced at the imagery. “Yeah, well, for now it’s just him texting me all day. Every ten minutes or so I get another one, begging me for a case.” As if on cue, his text alert chimed. Gregory ignored it, gesturing Mycroft into the dining room.

Over dinner, Mycroft focused on Gregory to avoid thinking about what he was putting in his body. It was a tactic he hadn’t considered prior to their relationship, given that he had no one to eat with, but he found that if he put most of his concentration into his dinner partner, he could ignore the screeches about calories that echoed in the back of his mind. Gregory filled the role beautifully, enthusiastically complaining about Sherlock and the teasing he was suffering at Donovan’s hands as payback for not telling her about their relationship sooner. Mycroft smiled fondly at his boyfriend, and Gregory trailed off mid-sentence. “What?” he asked, a bit self-consciously.

“Nothing,” Mycroft said. Then, because he could, he added, “I love you.”

The look on Gregory’s face every time Mycroft said that was well worth how much effort it had taken to work himself up to it the first time. Gregory held that expression, a mix of disbelief and pure joy as he responded, “I love you too.” He cleared his throat, “So I take I therapy going well, then.”

Mycroft nodded. “I was a bit hesitant, at first.” Gregory snorted, and Mycroft fixed him with a slightly annoyed look, but Gregory's challenging raised eyebrows were enough to make Mycroft concede the point and continue, “But I believe it will help.”

“Good.” Gregory reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. The casual gesture of affection set off Mycroft's heart again. “I'm glad you're still doing it.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Mycroft said, so quietly that he wasn't even sure Gregory had heard him, “You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

The quiet that stretched between them almost convinced Mycroft that Gregory _hadn't_ heard, before the soft pressure on his hand was back. Gregory smiled at him, soft and sweet, and said, “You deserve good things, Mycroft.”

“I’m still not sure I believe you,” Mycroft knew his self-deprecating humor wouldn’t be appreciated, but it was the only way he could express himself at the moment, “but as long as you believe it, I will continue to reap in the rewards.”

“Rewards, huh?” Gregory’s smile turned playful, making Mycroft’s stomach flutter in a way that had nothing to do with dinner. Dancing this line with Gregory excited Mycroft as much as it frightened him.

“Yes, that would be you,” Mycroft returned with his own smirk. “It’s always nice to have a piece of arm candy to show off at events and such.”

Gregory sighed theatrically, “I knew you only wanted me for my good looks.” They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds before both men burst in a fit of laughter. Even after it died down, Mycroft felt like he was glowing. Sentiment. What a strange thing it was.

“Love? You still with me?” Gregory asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Always,” Mycroft promised, and meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> I normally write from Greg's perspective, so this was a bit weird to write but I felt Mycroft needed to have some say in his story, and I'll be doing more of his point of view in some of the later pieces. I hope it doesn't feel too odd. Also, I just really wanted to include Greg and Mycroft's meeting in a way that made sense for the story. I'm glad you guys seem to be liking this series.


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